


Humble Beginnings

by monochromatic



Series: Bellamy's Gospel [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 22:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2405708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monochromatic/pseuds/monochromatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short about Audric's arrival in Skyrim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Humble Beginnings

The two men sat, dangling their legs over the edge of the dock, Audric soaking his aching feet in the rushing water. His stomach rumbled, but it seemed as if every time he contemplated a meal, the smell of blood and smoke and burning flesh filled his nose and he felt nauseated all over again. 

“Do you hail from Cyrodiil?” Ralof asked. 

Audric could lie. What did he owe this stranger? Doves cooed, unseen in the gray morning, and a mild breeze soothed his new scars.‘I owe him my life, in fact.’ Ralof’s words echoed through his head and he resigned himself to the truth.

“I come from High Rock, actually.” Out of his peripheral vision, he noticed he was being side-eyed, suspiciously. “Wayrest.”

“Hmm.” 

Standing, Audric made his way down the embankment. “Do you mind if I…?” he began to strip.

“Not so long as you don’t mind company. I’d hate for you to pass out in the river— wouldn’t want you washing up in Windhelm, drowned.” 

Audric rolled his eyes. “I’ve had enough of this war already, thanks.” 

Long after he was waist-deep in the water, Ralof spoke again. “But you lived in Cyrodiil, or were you just passing through?”

“What’s the fascination?” he snapped, scrubbing himself roughly with the bar of borrowed soap. He missed his own soap. 

“Just curious, I guess.”

“Sorry, I’m…”

“Don’t apologize,” Ralof said, “we’ve been through a lot the past few days.”

In lieu of an apology then, he offered some more answers. “I lived in Cyrodiil, for almost year. Lived in Hammerfell for a while before that.” Two years, two years of washing congealed fat off dirty pans, of drying porcelain dishes, of serving patrons with no regard for personal space. Two years of living in cramped quarters on hot nights with people who smoked. When he turned around, Ralof was gazing at him skeptically.

“How old are you?”

Audric didn’t look him in the face. “Nineteen.”

But he didn’t seem perturbed, not like some of Audric’s lovers, his jailers, or the prostitutes he’d once lived with. He was used to his age being a source of discomfort, but if this burly, unflappable Nord was at all bothered, he didn’t show it.

“How old are you?” he fired back.

Ralof grinned. “Old enough to know better,” he assured.

“But not old enough to care, I hope.” Visions of Helgen, ablaze and in ruin, kept creeping across his mind, and he picked incessantly at the dirt beneath his nails.

“So what’s Wayrest like?” Ralof asked, shifting his weight against a pine beam.

Audric thought about it for a bit, trying to place words to images. “Dull,” he decided. “Very structured, orderly. Made of stone.”

“And your family?”

“About the same,” he answered cryptically.

“You won’t be writing them, then?”

“They don’t want to hear from me.” 

An awkward pause ensued, though it was halted soon enough when Ralof joked, “Shall we write them and tell them you’ve been gobbled up by a dragon?”

Audric laughed and then dunked himself beneath the current. 

The two of them went back into the house, and Audric climbed into their shared bed while Ralof fixed himself breakfast. If he’d paid attention, he might have seen that enough had been prepared for two. Thankfully, Frodnar happened along and ate Audric’s portion, so that he wouldn’t have to feel bad.

“You really ought to eat something,” Ralof said gently, helping his guest out of bed. Audric swayed a little and stared at a nearby bucket, but he didn’t look so green in the face anymore. 

“I don’t know if I can,” he croaked. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

Ralof nodded, but hauled him onto his feet. He made him put on some street clothes; they were too big for him, the pants too long and the shirt too large. He tripped over himself and snagged on furniture and swore enough to show his age.

A steaming bowl of chicken soup was set in front of him. 

“I’ve never killed anyone before,” he muttered into the soup. “I’ve fought and I’ve run and I’ve defended myself, but…”

“It’s hard, when you think of it like that.”

“What other way is there?”

The soup was warm and savory and it wasn’t terribly rich. Audric slurped it and soaked hunks of bread in it. He realized, then, exactly how hungry he was.

“Now see,” Ralof chided good-naturedly, “if you’d waited until you were ready, you’d have starved.” 

Audric glared at him over the rim of the bowl.

Gerdur had said to help himself, and he needed to get his strength up before he could leave. He shuffled around the kitchen, haphazardly chopping vegetables. He threw them into a pot with the leftover broth and started frying an egg.

“I’m not going to Windhelm,” he said firmly. “I’ll go to Whiterun — I’ll deliver your sister’s message — but I’m not getting involved in this war.”

“Not get involved? That sounds like it’s going to be hard.”

“You know what I mean.”

“What will you do, then?”

“What I came here to do.” He’d been picked up at the border just as Tullius had received his orders to turn back. With bounties on his head in two Imperial provinces, he’d been terrified of being extradited, so his detour into Helgen had seemed a blessing…that was until the headsman had shown up.

“What exactly is that?” Ralof pried.

This time, Audric could stand to lie, a little bit. “I’m going to Riften. Going to set up shop and see if I can’t make some coin. Hear they could always use dock workers.” He was a rotten, filthy thief and he knew it, but that didn’t mean this kind man who had offered him shelter needed to know it.

“A bit scrawny to work the docks, aren’t you?” Ralof teased.

Audric’s fist collided with Ralof’s arm. “Too scrawny for war, then, huh.”

“Not so much,” he grunted, rubbing the sore spot.

When the smell of garlic and broth filled the little home, Audric took the pot off the stove and poured the soup into two bowls, dropping the egg into his own. Ralof eyed the egg dubiously, but bit his tongue.

“Where did you learn to cook?” he asked.

“I was a kitchen boy, in Hammerfell.”

Ralof looked surprised. “How does a kitchen boy get so strong?” he demanded.

He thought of his teacher, of the scars and nicks on his body from hard training in the sun. He thought of the price on his head, equivalent to all that he’d stolen from the gambling house to pay for his sword lessons. “Kitchen work can be hard work,” he said.

That night, Audric couldn’t sleep. He tossed and he turned into the wee hours of morning, while Ralof snored beside him. In that small window of time, suspended between morning and night, all of his anxieties crept in on him. He missed his family and his friends; he wondered what they were doing, if Lex had gone on to independent study or if he’d succumbed to their father and had gone off to Northpoint. He was certain Elle would be sought after from all corners of High Rock, prodigal Destruction mage that she was. The twins were teetering on their thirteenth frost.

He really missed his mother.

When it hurt too much to think about any longer, he got out of bed and dressed. As quietly as possible, he tucked some food into a satchel, and strapped all his weapons to his person. It was still early yet, but he needed to be on the road, not curled in a warm bed with a warm stranger. Still, he kissed Ralof on his forehead before departing. “Thank you,” he whispered into his hair. 

He locked the door behind him, and paused on the porch a moment. Breathing deep the fresh night air, he felt better; the sturdy earth beneath his feet and the smell of robust pine invigorated him. 

Skyrim would make him stronger, he could just tell.


End file.
